


The Final Goodbye

by McVetty



Category: Ravenous (1999), Tombstone - Fandom, Wyatt Earp - Fandom
Genre: chronologically impossible AU crossover headcanon, headcannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:04:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McVetty/pseuds/McVetty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he was Colonel Ives of Fort Spencer, he was Doc Holliday of Tombstone, a dying dentist, a gambling gunslinger, whose only friend was a bitter lawman named Wyatt Earp. When Ives hears news of Wyatt's disease, he travels to Los Angeles to pay his final respects for his only friend, only to learn he had a deeper purpose for leaving Fort Spencer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Final Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Even though I know it isn’t possible because of the timeline, I still hold on to the fantasy that Colonel Ives’ true identity is Doc Holliday, and rather than die at the end of the movie, Ives made it back to Wyatt Earp’s death bed to say his final goodbye. There was a little humanity left in Ives, and it was all for his only friend in life.
> 
> “You know, not too long ago I couldn’t do that. Could barely take a breath without coughing up a pint of blood. Tuberculosis. That along with fierce headaches… depression… suicidal ambition. I was in pretty horrible shape. In fact I was on my way to a sanatorium to convalesce when a native scout told me a curious story. Man eats the flesh of another, he takes the other man’s strength, absorbs his spirit. Well. Naturally I just had to try. Consequently I ate the scout first and you know he was absolutely right. I grew stronger. Tuberculosis? Vanished.” - Colonel Ives, Ravenous (1999)

It wasn't a summons so much as a telegraph with the daily news. What struck Ives as important was the name he skimmed. Standing on the wall of Fort Spencer, holding the paper in his hand, he stared down the man who handed it to him, as if challenging him for information. After the bloody discovery of Colonel Ives and Captain John Boyd locked in a deadly struggle for survival, Ives stayed on at Fort Spencer. With Boyd dead and the rest of the original crew gone, no one was left to challenge Ives to his claim, nor did anyone question his strange role in both encounters.

Back to the messenger.

Ives read the paper again, crumpling it in one hand.

“Sir?”

“It's nothing,” Ives said casually, taking a cigar from his breast pocket. “Ready the best horse, I'll be leaving before nightfall.”

It took less time to get ready than he had allotted for, and he really shouldn't have been angry with the boy for not having the horse ready, but he supposed the stupid boy was too busy testing each horse for speed before getting the tack ready. In the end, Ives had to saddle his own horse, pushing the messenger aside and taking over with silent disapproval.

The messenger got the point.

Ives didn't stop to let the horse rest. He barely stopped at all, even when blood and phlegm spattered from the horse's nose and it began to misstep. Ives did stop when the horse stumbled, nearly tumbling him out of the saddle, but only to take a horse from a barn without permission and keep moving on. The second horse proved to be too weak to properly carry him at the speeds he desired, and when the horse twisted it's leg in a hole on the dark trail, Ives left the animal in the woods and pressed on.

It was many long hours, and into the daylight, before he came upon a house. It was some time later and an exchange of money (of which he had little use, being at Fort Spencer so long) that he bought _another_ horse and continued on the last leg of his journey. The third horse was considerably more durable, and made it into Los Angeles as the sun was beginning to sink beneath the horizon and the proper families were holing up in their homes to avoid the stranger crowd that crawled out at night. 

In all his long life, Ives had never once been in Los Angeles. Now, he felt out of place on his horse as vehicles drove by, honking in impatience at the crazy looking cowboy. It didn't take long for Ives to leave the horse behind, trusting it to find its way to someone who would care a lick about it.

With one location in mind, the wendigo strolled casually down the sidewalk, keen eyes observing every bit of city life and deciding, perhaps even before hearing a city-dweller speak, that he didn't much care for the hustle and bustle of it all. He lit a cigar, inhaling and puffing out little ringlets of smoke. He needed to be calm and lucid for this moment of his life, while every nerve of his body was screaming at him to stop walking, turn around, go back, it wasn't his business anymore.

But it was his business.

Wyatt was always his business.

Once, someone had asked Ives – before he was Ives – why he would risk his life. He hesitated only because the blood in his mouth tasted of iron and weakness, but in the end, he'd answered confidently.  _“Because Wyatt Earp is my friend.”_ The man had laughed at him, told him he had plenty of friends. Ives – but he wasn't Ives then – only shook his head and said  _“I don't.”_

That was a lifetime ago, nearly in the literal sense. 

The home was modest, Wyatt always did understate things. When Ives knocked on the door, he felt a long-forgotten feeling clench in his stomach – something like hunger but considerably sharper – and he realized it was  _fear_ . He was  _afraid_ to see Wyatt Earp again.  _Unreasonable_ , he told himself, _absolutely unreasonable_ . So he knocked again, and this time a pleasant young woman came to the door, though her eyes were dead with worry and pain and suffering.

“Can I help you?” she asked curtly. 

“I'm here to see Wyatt,” Ives said politely, that gentlemanly drawl dripping on his every word.

“He's not accepting visitors,” the woman bristled. “Do you think you're the first stranger who's walked up here out of the blue and demanded to see my husband?”

“My,” Ives said, looking quite ashamed of himself. “I was not aware, Mrs. Earp. I'm glad to see he married such a lovely woman as yourself, and might I add  _feisty_ , and I should have introduced myself sooner. I was in Tombstone with Wyatt, and I would like to pay my respects.” 

“Tombstone,” the woman replied, monotone.

“Indeed, ma'am.”

“Why don't I remember you?”

“I've changed quite a bit, but if you cared to ask something, I would oblige you in an answer. Anything at all.”

At first Ives thought she wouldn't take the bait, and he was almost glad, the tightness in his stomach loosened. He came all this way, what was he expecting? What would he accomplish? Who was he anymore? Surely Wyatt had forgotten about the dying, gambling dentist. Mrs. Earp surprised him when she turned to face the inside of the home.

“I do suppose,” she said, as if defeated, like he'd given her a lively debate. “But ten minutes, no more.”

“That is all, ma'am, thank you for your kindness,” Ives said, bending slightly at his waist, sweeping off his hat to hold it against his chest.

Mrs. Earp didn't take notice. She took lead, showing Ives to a room in the corner of the home, pushing the door open carefully as if it might break under the pressure.

“He's resting,” she said, and Ives could hear the disapproval in her voice. “Please make it quick.”

Ives entered the room, looking to the bed, where the man lay quietly in the dim light. He crossed the room quietly, coming to rest beside the bed, looking down on the face of a man he barely recognized. Skin pulled tight over angled cheekbones, new wrinkles in places where they had been previously absent, thin graying hair. Wyatt Earp had grown old, while his loyal dentist had stayed forever young. Looking at the man in the bed, Ives realized why he chose to visit, the reality of it hitting him in an instant.

“Was this what it looked like for you?” he asked, quiet curiosity in his voice. “Looking on from a healthy body, seeing this disease?”

“Josie...?”

The word startled Ives, who looked to the door, then back down to Wyatt, who had opened his eyes and was staring up at him as if trying hard to recall who this new face beside his bed belonged to.

“Who...”

“Wyatt,” Ives said, and there was a fondness in his voice that he'd not heard in many decades. “I've come to say goodbye. And to say thank you, because you've lived for me more than you know.”

Wyatt was quiet a long time, his still-sharp eyes flicking over Ives' face. As dull recognition crept into his eyes, his lips parted to form soundless words. Ives didn't encourage him, but looked out the dimming window.

“I've done things you wouldn't be proud of,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Things, lookin' back, I'm not proud of. Then, I never did have morals, did I?”

Wyatt's voice was strained, hoarse with disbelief. “Doc?”

“Not anymore, not for a long time,” Ives answered.

“You died.”

“Not exactly. I almost died. I was on my way to the sanatorium – the one we talked about. I remember that conversation, Wyatt, every day. I wish I could have let go, I should have let go. My guide told me a curious myth from his tribe. If the myth had any truth, I would yet live,” Ives said, reflecting on the event with less gusto than previously recounted. “Turns out, the myth had been right. I woke feeling better. No more blood, no more coughing fits, no more pain.”

Wyatt flinched. 

“No more  _pain_ , Wyatt,” Ives pressed, looking to his old friend for comfort, as if needing that acceptance to justify what he'd done to survive.

“What did you do?” Wyatt asked, wary.

“The myth of the Wendigo,” Ives answered, somewhat flatly. “Man eats the flesh of another man, he gains his strength, gains his life, can live forever. It sounds so wonderful to a dying man, Wyatt. You have to understand.”

Wyatt doesn't.

“You're strong, Wyatt, always have been. I've been weak, susceptible to fits and fatigue and bouts of intoxication that lasted for days to numb the pain. I'm strong now. Better.”

“No.”

The word crushed him in one syllable.

“Doc, if you're in there, you've made a mistake,” Wyatt growled. “You always were foolish but you were never evil. You were never psychotic.”

Ives didn't have time to formulate a response.

“A man asked me what I thought of you,” Wyatt said, pulling himself up in bed, his face growing pale. “Do you know what I said?”

Ives grit his teeth.

“ _I found him loyal and good company_ , I told them.  _He was a dentist who necessity had made a gambler_ , I justified.  _He was a gentleman who disease had made a vagabond,_ I added.  _A philosopher who life had made a caustic wit. The most skillful gambler and the nerviest, speediest, deadliest man with a six-gun I ever knew.”_ Wyatt took a deep breath, seeming to exhaust himself with that bit. His chest rose and fell heavily. “Who are you know?”

Ives didn't know, but he had the feeling he was formulating that part easily enough now.

“I never forgot you, not once,” Wyatt said, paused to cough into his hand. “Not once.”

“And I, you, Wyatt,” Ives answered.

“You forgot me easily enough when you made that decision.”

The corner of Ives' lip twitched up in what might have been the start of a sardonic smirk.

“You are a hypocrite,” Wyatt spat.

“After,” Ives started hesitantly, “I did think of you, I did think of what I'd done, I wanted to go to you.”

Wyatt closes his mouth. 

“I knew you would disapprove. I came here today to face something I've been afraid of. The only thing I'm still afraid of. I'm no longer fearful of death. I don't fear other people, I don't fear the future. The only thing I have feared these years is the disappointment in your eyes.”

A silence spread across the room. It wasn't uncomfortable, and they sat in it quietly in thought. Ives broke it.

“You've helped me yet again, Wyatt.”

“How?”

“I believe you know.”

Wyatt didn't answer.

“I do wonder, though.”

“What's that?”

“Do you suppose Glenwood Springs will accept a patient forty-two years late?”


End file.
